


How to Write a Love Song

by creatingconstellations



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, artist lily, musician james
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5159555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatingconstellations/pseuds/creatingconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 'I'm in a new band, and we ride the same bus, and holy hell you're listening to my album au'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How to Write a Love Song

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr's jilyweek.

Red hair. Bright green eyes. She’s there again. Sitting at the back of the bus by the window, book in her hand, headphones in, tapping her foot along to whatever beat is blasting in her ears. He knows she will ride until Pembroke Road, the same stop he gets off at. Except James walks one way down the street, and she walks the other. Everyday its the same, without fail. 

Today, he decides to be daring and sit closer to Red, - that’s what he’s taken to calling her, being as he doesn’t know her name - leaving one seat in between them so he doesn’t seem too weird. He slings his guitar off his shoulder as he sits and puts it between his legs. She looks up and smiles at him as he sits down, but then goes back to reading. She’s got a new book today - he swears he’s not a stalker, just perceptive - but he can’t see what the title is. 

He sighs quietly and goes back to staring at his interlocked hands, doing what he always does on the bus – song writing. Since he comes straight on the bus from the studio everyday, his head is always filled with possible lyrics to go with whatever him and the guys had worked on that day. Their band, The Marauders, is fairly new, they only released their first album a month ago, and so they’ve been trying to write as much as possible, as to not lose any ‘hype’ they might have. At least that’s what their manager says. 

James finds it quite relaxing, actually. He can practically picture the lyrics in his head, picking them and pulling them, moving them around trying to find the perfect combination. Because he never writes any of them down, - unless they’re good enough to stick in his head on the walk to his flat - it doesn’t feel permanent. And as weird as it may sound, sometimes messing up feels good. Coming up with the wrong lyrics only means the right ones are out there, just waiting to be found. 

Today, however, he is not having any luck. It’s one of those days when nothing is working, everything he comes up with is shit, and the letters of every word seem to have rearranged themselves into new orders. He can  _picture_ what he wants to write, if that makes any sense, but he can’t actually find the words to write it. He sighs. Shaking his head, as if that will make all the words in his head rearrange into the perfect order. It doesn’t.

Then, he hears something that makes him stop. It’s Red, she’s humming and it sounds like... no it can’t be. But then she clicks on her phone to check the time and he sees it. That drawing of a wolf, a dog, a stag and a rat that Sirius did - because apparently he can’t write songs for shit but the git can draw for God’s sake - that eventually became the cover of their album,  _Up to No Good._

She is listening to his album. His bloody album. His bloody  _fucking_ album. Holy shit. He was completely in awe. He didn’t know what to do with himself. This was the first time something like this had happened, and James didn’t want to say something and then sound like a pompous ass for it. Rationally, he realized that he probably just shouldn’t say anything. But for some reason - maybe it was just him being selfish, or maybe it was his inner eight year old who was so bloody excited because he had always wanted to be a rock star and somehow all those birthday cake wishes had come true - he just felt like he  _had_ to say something. 

So he closed his eyes for a second, and gathered up his courage, before speaking. 

“Hey, is that band any good?” He tried to sounds as casual as possible, but his voice was shaking from nerves or excitement or something, and all he could think was  _our album, she’s listening to our bloody album._

She pulled out an earbud. “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Her voice was soft, but assured, and she had a small smile on her lips. He got a fluttery feeling in his stomach. It was the same feeling he got when listening to a fucking fantastic song that just seems to pulse music into him and fill up his veins with liquid gold sound until his entire  _being_ was encompassed by the sound; his heart beating along with the baseline. 

“I was just wondering if that band was any good,” he said, gesturing to her phone. “My mate told me about them, but I haven’t had the time to listen to it yet.”

Her smile widened. It was like staring into the sun. “It’s  _magical._ The music itself is captivating - the perfect mix of hardcore guitar solos and softer moments that feel almost silent - but what really makes it is the lyrics. They’re just so  _real_ or something. It’s none of that bullshit pop crap that you hear on the radio. You can tell that there was thought put into these lyrics. That they really mean something, you know?” 

He doesn’t know what to say. That is everything he has ever wanted to hear, that his lyrics touched somebody. James knows he should probably say something, but he’s at a loss for words. Like every word he knows is made of scrabble pieces that have been thrown on the floor, and now he’s desperately trying to make sense of them. 

Red looks down, obviously taking his silence as a bad thing. Her cheeks flush. “I’m sorry. That was weird, wasn’t it? I just have this thing for good music. And The Marauders are just  _so_ good. I’m sorry if I freaked you out.” She looks up slightly and he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. 

“Don’t worry, you didn’t freak me out,” he laughs lightly through the words, and runs his hand through his hair. It’s a nervous habit, the guys are always teasing him about it. “It’s just, my mate didn’t recommend that band to me,” she looks confused. He decides to just say it. “That band, The Marauders, that’s  _my_ band. I’m the singer and guitarist. Well, sometimes I play the bass. That’s where I come from everyday; we’re always at the studio.”

Okay he’s rambling now. And her jaw has gone slack, and she’s looking at him like he has three heads. He feels his cheeks heating up. God, why did he just  _do_ that? 

“A-are you serious?” She finally stutters out, her voice sounding slightly incredulous, but mostly just shocked. “You’re actually the singer of The Marauders?”

“Yeah,” he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle. Another nervous habit. “I mean I don’t know exactly how I could prove it to you, I guess I’ve got some old drafts-”

“No, it’s okay,” she says cutting him off, “it’s just, why didn’t you  _lead_ with that?” 

“I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t want to sound like some pretentious prick fishing for a compliment. I wanted to know what you thought, this is the first time something like this has happened to me.”

“Well I wasn’t kidding about what I said. Your songs  _are_  amazing. Do you write them?” she asks, leaning slightly towards him. 

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Most of them. Remus writes a few - he’s the pianist - but other than that, it’s all me.”

“That’s incredible. It’s just - God, how do you do it?” 

“I don’t know, really,” his voice sounds slightly far away, like he’s trying to come up with an adequate answer but can’t find one. “It just sort of, happens.”

“I know what you mean. I’m an artist, myself, and sometimes- oh!” she jumps up noticing that the bus had just pulled to a stop. “It’s our stop! I didn’t even see it coming.”

They both rush out of their seats, him slinging his guitar over his shoulder as he jumps down the stairs and out the door before the bus starts moving again. 

“That was close,” he says, unsure of what to do know that they’re on solid ground and not a moving vehicle. “So, what was this about you being an artist?”

“Oh yeah. I’m an artist. The traditional, painter type. That’s where  _I_ come from every day, my studio is only two stops north of yours,” she smiles, and it lights up her face. James can tell that this is what she loves to do, just by the way she talks about it. “But anyway, I was just saying how I know what you mean about it ‘just happening’. There are days when I stare at a blank canvas for hours and I just can’t seem to paint anything. But then there are days when is just flows out of me, and suddenly I’ve done four pieces in one day.”

“That’s amazing. I’d love to see your work sometime.”

“You should come by the studio. I’m there everyday,” she says, digging through her bag for her card. She finds one and looks up at him, handing it to him. He takes it from her outstretched hand, smiling down at her. She’s almost a foot shorter than he is. He is hit by the sudden realization that he doesn’t ever want this moment to end. His fingers twitch for a pen a pencil,  _anything._ Because this,  _this,_ is the type of feeling that people write songs about. And as if she can feel it too, she makes another suggestion. “Or you can come with me to my place? I have some of my stuff there. And then maybe we can grab some coffee afterwards?”

He doesn’t know how to reply. Not when this beautiful girl, who he’s been dreaming about just  _talking to_  for weeks, whose name he doesn’t even know, is asking him out. 

She takes his silence not as the awe it is but as refusal. “Nevermind,”she says, ducking her head, trying to hide the blush on her face. “I’m sorry,” she’s backing away now. “I guess I’ll-”

“No, wait! That’s not- I mean,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but if he had to guess, he bets its all over the place like it’s been hit by a hurricane. “I would love to get coffee with you. I just don’t even know your name.”

She smiles that soul-awakening-brighter-than-the-sun smile and holds out her hand. “I’m Lily Evans.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily Evans. I’m James Potter,” He shakes her outstretched hand, and - if it’s possible - her smile grows even bigger. He can feel his features slipping into the same expression. “Now where to? I can’t wait to see your work.”

* * *

 

They spend the rest of the day together. He sees her artwork. Its amazing. He can practically feel the emotions and the stories wafting from the paint. He tries to buy one of a forest, but she refuses to let him pay, telling him that its practically the job of a rockstar to get free stuff. 

They star at this little café by her flat until the waitress tells them that they’re closing, the sun dipping below the horizon outside. They talk about the band, and he tells her about each of the guys. Tells her how they’re his family. He tells her about his parents, and how they encouraged him with their last breaths to follow his dreams. 

She tells him about her family- both the blood related and the ones that are not. She tells him about how her parents always encouraged her, but they were never completely supportive of her career choice. She still seems them every once in a while. She shrugs when she mentions this, as if to say ‘I wish it were better, but its not, and there’s nothing I can do’. 

She talks about her sister, and her voice grows quieter. Tells him how her sister never approved of her choice, and cut off all connection with her the day she opened her studio. He can see the tears welling in her eyes, and he vows that he will never let anything or anyone hurt her again. 

They talk as they walk, just wandering around the city, losing track of time. They end up walking to their bus stop, and this is where they stop. Sometime during their walk he had grabbed her hand, ad she squeezes his fingers now. 

He promises to stop by her studio the next day. She promises to have his painting. He tries again to pay. She refuses. 

As her bends down to kiss her cheek - he can feel her cheeks stretch into that grin he already loves underneath his lips - all the words, every phrase that he’s been pulling at and trying to push into a song, fall into place. 

* * *

 

_One Week Later_

“Sorry I’m late!” James says rushing into the studio, a piece of paper in his hand. “I was with Lily and-”

“Yeah, we know mate,” Sirius says from across the room, where he is sitting on the ground, tuning his guitar. “That’s where you always are. Hey does she play anything? Maybe we should just ask her to join the band?”

“Oh shut it Sirius,” Remus cuts in, throwing a guitar pick at him. He turns to James. “He’s just jealous. Seriously mate, we’re all really happy for you.”

“Thanks. But you didn’t let me finish. I was with Lily and I wrote this,” he says handing the piece of paper in his hand to Peter. “I finally finished one.”

“Wow. This is,” Peter starts.

“Bloody fantastic,” Sirius finishes, looking over Peter’s shoulder. 

“Really, James. This is amazing,” Remus says. 

“Thanks guys,” James says, slinging his guitar over shoulder and picking out a cord. “Shall we try it?”

_Oh darling I’m pretty sure the stars get their light from you_

_When you smile the sky, it shines anew_

_Oh love I didn’t know_

_I didn’t know_

_How to write a love song_

_How to write a love song_

_Before I met you_

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think?
> 
> Talk to me about it on [Tumblr ](http://expectoepatronums.tumblr.com/)


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